


The Crate Situation

by TeaRex



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Dry Humping, Dry Sex, Frottage, M/M, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, because it's the only way these two can function
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24749788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/pseuds/TeaRex
Summary: 'The living force guides Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan into a compromising situation.' At least that's the bs Qui-Gon will tell you.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 83





	The Crate Situation

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Ruth Baulding's Lineage series. Volume 5, chapter 4 to be exact. The scene in question involves Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon being in a crate for a good few hours; forever immortalised as the famous 'crate situation/scene'. Ruth has a tendency to be... suggestive, and if you squint f*ckin' hard enough you can perceive some subtle implications in the nature of her work. My friends and I take great delight in discussing it AT LENGTH.  
> 
> 
> Many thanks to [Saner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside) for beta'ing and being tolerant of my shenanigans. A huge shout-out the Tess, Cat, Pom and many others who have continually supported me, and indulged my occasional screaming and my many firsts with RB.

“This is your ingenious plan?”

Qui-Gon is decidedly silent, examining the make-shift smuggling crate. Until moments ago, it housed laboratory rats on route to a dismal fate at the hands of scientists and experimentation. Guided by the living force and accompanied by his recently knighted Padawan, Qui-Gon determines this would be the means of infiltrating the secure facility, much to Obi-Wan's radiating disgust.

The scurry of the rats' frantic liberation fades beneath towering shelving and cluttered storage of the privatised docking bay. The bedding, a small surprise that the animals were afforded such simple luxury, is swept from the crate with a simple gesture, hidden from suspicious eyes.

“This will do fine.” Qui-Gon concludes, and Obi-Wan wrinkles his nose. Gesturing to a second crate, Qui-Gon adds, “Here, help me would you.”

Ever persistent, the Jedi Knight implores, “Can we not find a more _sanitary_ means of smuggling us aboard?”

Qui-Gon acknowledges the fair haired man at last. “If you have another method, by all means, I'm welcome to suggestions.”

In response, Qui-Gon receives thin lipped disapproval and allows his amusement to buffer against Obi-Wan's simmering consciousness. As much as the Jedi Master welcomes the banter of his former pupil, the force nudges them in warning, and simultaneously they look to the direction of incoming footsteps.

“It would appear you're too slow,” Qui-Gon quips, and jumps into the crate, beckoning the Jedi to follow.

“You can't be serious?” Obi-Wan hisses. “There's barely enough room for you, let alone-”

He's unceremoniously yanked by his Jedi robes, toppling onto the tall man who grunts on impact. With an unsavoury curse from his disgruntled companion, Qui-Gon shifts the crate lid back into place, plunging them into darkness.

No sooner the sounds of heavy footsteps encroach on their improvised concealment. A guttural conversation transpires above them and with subtle force influence from Qui-Gon, the crate of laboratory rats is transported aboard a cruiser.

As they're jostled about in transit, Obi-Wan holds his tongue, burning to reprimand the older man for their circumstances.

The crate barely fit the tall, broad Jedi, let alone a secondary, if not shorter Jedi. With what limited spacing allowed for movement, Obi-Wan shifts so he is sandwiched between the interior wall and half atop the supine man. One leg is wedged beside Qui-Gon while the other crowds the space between his long, lean legs. Indeed, a compromising position.

With carelessness for the perceived creatures within, the crate is dropped and lands hard. Obi-Wan's elbow jabs Qui-Gon in the stomach who oophs aloud. He projects an apology however tainted with smug retribution.

When all is quiet and sensing no life forms in the vicinity, they allow themselves to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Well, this is a fine mess we're in,” Obi-Wan grumbles.

“A matter of perspective,” Qui-Gon diplomatically responds.

“My perspective--” Obi-Wan bristles, “--is that we’ll be stuck in here for force knows how long, tighter than a tin of burra fish.” And for emphasis, he attempts to shift the weight of his body off his crushed arm, prickling from restricted circulation. With his free hand, he utilises Qui-Gon's opposite shoulder as leverage to pull himself onto the hard chest. A rush of sensation and repetitious flexing of his fingers sees some blood flow restored, but the situation remains far from comfortable.

There is a brief moment of peace before Obi-Wan starts squirming again, and Qui-Gon flinches when a knee shifts dangerously close to a sensitive area.

“Be still,” Qui-Gon chides, momentarily compelled to tug the now absent learners' braid. To his relief, the former apprentice heeds the soft command with a petulant huff.

Begrudgingly resigned to his fate, Obi-Wan rests his head on Qui-Gon’s chest, trying to seek brief respite in light meditation. He's rewarded with temporary solace, surprised at first that calm comes so easily, even more so that the confined space is void of rodent aroma, he notes; restraining another wrinkle of his nose. He sharpens his focus, distinguishing a faint musk and traces of spiced incense. It envelops him in comfort and familiarity

It reminds him of a warm welcome on return after a long mission. Of ritual ceremony and shared meditation. Of longing and sequestered feelings.

In the dark, Obi-Wan’s eyes open to nothingness to stare in stark realisation. For so long this part of him, buried beneath decorum and incontestable fidelity, has been kept secret, even from himself for the longest time. And how quickly it surfaced to sabotage him.

“Obi-Wan?” the Jedi master inquires, sensing the sudden disturbance.

Obi-Wan feels the thud of his heart, the spiking of anxiety. They were too close. Much too close! _Focus_ , he commands. _Breathe. Deflect. Focus._

“It's nothing,” Obi-Wan responds, tightly.

A chuckle catches in Qui-Gon's throat, amused if not disappointed by the sloppy counter. “In all our years, you think me a fool not to recognise your brooding, Padawan or not.”

“I would hardly call it brooding.”

“Oh?” Qui-Gon voices with mild interest, however desists with the playfully provocation, lest the young Jedi seek physical retaliation against him. However, the thought inspires great entertainment.

Growing unease continues to taints the Jedi knight's signature, but through the decade of his apprenticeship, Qui-Gon had learned that at times to leave well enough alone.

Qui-Gon confesses that Obi-Wan is rightfully contemptuous of their present state, his age and build loudly protesting against the cramped space. But stars forbid he admit it aloud, much for the derision of irate young man. And while he maintained that this was the will of the force, it didn't deter him from seeking relief, legs shifting to alleviate the onset of a cramp, oblivious to the rising tension.

In the throes of a silent crisis, Obi-Wan endeavours to restructure some semblance of pleasant denial. Yet, Qui-Gon's wriggling proves extraordinarily distracting. At first he tolerates it, barely, but every shift triggers a physical reaction. Accumulating. Retaliating. He grinds his teeth, recites the code, and begs that his mind thwarts the sin of the flesh.

But it takes one shift between his legs, innocent and devoid of the perversion it stirs, to break his constitution.

Obi-Wan inhales sharply, a hiss between his teeth. “Can you please _stop_ that.”

Qui-Gon stills, brows shooting upward comically, surprised by the sudden censure. He brushes off the unexpected outburst but projects mild disapproval sullied by unrestrained amusement. Yet, when he speaks, he masks colourful inflection and adopts a tone of neutrality.

“I tolerated your wriggling and surliness, my Padawan--” adding the formality for effect, “--but humour me. I should very much like to hear your grounds for why I should.”  
When the Jedi Knight declines to reply, Qui-Gon resumes stretching. He notes a subtle hitch in the young man's throat, another protest no doubt, and he’s almost compelled to ask Obi-Wan to move his saber from poking into his leg--

_Oh._

Qui-Gon’s immediate realisation is communicated before he can offer the courtesy to dampen his thoughts, sensing his companion freeze. Silence pulses in their ears, surpassing the deafening roar of a rancor.

It is but a product of their situation, Qui-Gon reasons. Dare he consider otherwise, and the dangerous notion is dismissed as swiftly as it came. So he maintains his private council, refusing to publicly acknowledge what they both know.

The darkness is claustrophobic, augmenting the spread of infectious panic, threatening to overwhelm Obi-Wan. Thoughts of losing everything he holds dear. So he scrambles, frantic to salvage the situation and hope for leniency from his master.

“F-forgive me, I--” but he chokes on the words.

“Quell your apology,” Qui-Gon dismisses, and self-congratulatory of his calmness. “If anyone is to be of fault, it is mine for forcing this situation on you.”

Despite the reassurance, humiliation bleeds from Obi-Wan like an open wound. Taking pity on the indisposed man, Qui-Gon attempts to reposition his leg and relieve Obi-Wan of further embarrassment.

“Here, let me--” Qui-Gon offers before caution is voiced and persuades him against it.

Obi-Wan jerks violently followed by a sharp whimper of protest.

_“Master.”_

Qui-Gon stiffens, the strangled plea stirring unbidden desire. In haste, he draws upon years of discipline to resist the hunger. It should be easy for he had fasted for so long. But he feels it, a subtle inclination and he asks himself in the breath of the moment if he would renounce his oath.

“Obi-Wan?” his voice cracks, and he swallows thickly. “Obi-Wan.”

_“Please--”_

Qui-Gon reaches out seeking guidance, his mind brushing against the other, fragile and recoiling from the inquiry. But he demands clarification, determined to alleviate his affliction and prevailing when the barrier succumbs. There he discovers a need, equal to his own, and he reasons that this is justified, it will be a balm for them both. 

“I have you,” he whispers.

And with blatant agenda, Qui-Gon asserts his thigh between Obi-Wan's, forcibly parting the vulnerable man's legs.

At first Obi-Wan is in doubt what is being suggested until, splayed either side of the muscular thigh, it's shifted upward, painfully intruding upon his aching need. _Oh, force._ _He couldn’t mean…_ The thigh nudges him again, insistent, earning another pitiful moan. It's too much, Obi-Wan thinks. He can't abstain any longer. On instinct his hip moves, grazing against the leg between him and is met with maddening relief which serves to encourage the movement. The coarse material of his trousers adds to the stimulation of the repeated motion and he's quickly lost in repetitious, wanton grinding.

It’s a mindless act, desperate and unhindered. Obi-Wan hides his face in the tunic of the man exploited for his pleasure, hoping the fabric will absorb the breaths and sounds of labour and lust. A hand threads through his hair as if to placate the thought, but he can't accept that Qui-Gon would condone his lapse in control. Forgive him...

But he doesn’t stop. Delirious and intoxicated by Qui-Gon’s very presence. And force he just wants to reach out and touch him. Confess. His legs tighten, muscles burning to maintain the pace. There will be bruising of his knees, the only evidence in days to follow of what transpired, because he’ll let it go - has to let it go. Release it to the force.

His movements stutter, tittering on the precipice of release.

_“Qui-Gon?"_ Obi-Wan moans, searching for something, anything of the man. And the Jedi master closes his eyes at the sound of his name, committing it to memory.

“You're almost there.” Qui-Gon whispers upon the crown of hair, illicit whimpers peaking. “Show me.”

And within the receptacle, safely guarding the intimate inquisition, Obi-Wan is broken for Qui-Gon’s delectation.

Obi-Wan is rendered a stuttering mess, shivering and panting, and Qui-Gon is with him, basking in his light. The potency of the air fills their lungs. And Qui-Gon offers only what he believes himself capable, enfolding the young man in a tight embrace. He's careful, emotions inscrutable, however masking his tented trousers was another matter.

When the afterglow dissipates, frightfully fleeting, and with two sets of trousers inconveniently uncomfortable, a thought is equally shared: what next? Neither offers an answer, volunteering silence.

The ship lands at their destination, cargo offloaded and stored in another shipping facility, and it couldn't come soon enough. When the coast is clear and the stifled box has served its purpose and disguised their espionage, they awkwardly clamber from the crate, muscles protesting and yet relieved. The two Jedi avoid eye contact as they each wrap their robes about their bodies to hide the evidence.

There is nothing to be said, Obi-Wan determines. A flush burning his cheeks. The tattered remnants of his psyche are haphazardly sown with threads of the force. It will suffice for now. There was only the mission, thankfully and conveniently distracting.

He turns, making away blindly but a hand, strong and unyielding, secures his arm, and oh, how he will always yield to it.

“Obi-Wan.” The voice beckons with subtle authority, demanding more of him. Yet a surge of defiance - or was it fear - compels him to hold fast one more second before he must confront the man.

Searing fingers capture his chin, forcing his obedience and he’s rendered unto the power of the Jedi Master. Obi-Wan glimpses a fleeting softness betrayed by kind eyes.

“We will speak of this later," Qui-Gon assures, leaving no doubt he will revisit the situation. The hand upon Obi-Wan's person tightens with promise before releasing him.

Obi-Wan watches the retreating Jedi robes and allows himself of moment, breath hiccuping as his composure falters for a second time that day. He can't begin to foresee how this will unfold. To comprehend what Qui-Gon is thinking, but he knows in that moment, as much as the Jedi master had tried to mask it, he had not been the only one to succumb to temptation.

**Author's Note:**

> Do they get together? Well, yeah! But not without more angst and bs first.


End file.
